


Hung round his neck (like a rope made of stars)

by PersonyPepper



Series: Geralt Whump Week 2019-2020 [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cursed Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Dancing, Geralt Whump Week (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, M/M, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Poetic, Prompt: Cursed, dancing curse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:16:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25053013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersonyPepper/pseuds/PersonyPepper
Summary: He had a name, long ago, though he doubts anyone remembers that name when he himself has forgotten it. He’s heard whispers of those who dared to enter this damned mansion, lovers curious and innocent, friends teasing and carefree, only to be met with his ghostly form. He hears their whispers.Przeklęty.Cursed, or better yet, damned.How adequate.He passes one foot over another, arm raised above his head as if being held by another as he spins before falling out of it and carrying on his intimate dance, the air in front of him a fine partner.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geralt Whump Week 2019-2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084442
Comments: 10
Kudos: 130





	Hung round his neck (like a rope made of stars)

Another step, another spin, arms suspended, magicked to never tire, magicked to never die. The air whistles past his hair, idle breezes dancing through his waist-long whites just as he dances through empty hallways, under arches of rotting wood and crumbling stone, magicked to last for as long as he does.

He had a name, long ago, though he doubts anyone remembers that name when he himself has forgotten it. He’s heard whispers of those who dared to enter this damned mansion, lovers curious and innocent, friends teasing and carefree, only to be met with his ghostly form. He hears their whispers.

 _Przeklęty_. 

_Cursed_ , or better yet, _damned._

How adequate. 

He passes one foot over another, arm raised above his head as if being held by another as he spins before falling out of it and carrying on his intimate dance, the air in front of him a fine partner.

Storm rages outside. No one will visit him tonight; no one has visited him for tens, hundreds of years, maybe longer. He wonders about his horse, if she is cursed with immortality as he is, bound to stay, or if she has perished, leaving him truly alone in the world. He wonders of his brothers, if they still hunt— what were their names? He bows to the air in front of him, the end of one dance, the beginning of the next. He can remember their names, maybe, it’s on the tip of his tongue, isn’t it? It is, but he can’t remember. And his mentor— Vesemir. 

Vesemir. Eskel. Lambert. Roach.

Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert, Roach.

_Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert, Roach._

He can’t say their names aloud, doesn’t know if it’s because he doesn’t remember how or if the curse prevents it. The curse that forces his muscles to lock in place, arms around a dance partner that isn’t there, feet in a beat that doesn’t play. Spinning in languid circles for infinity. He can blink, breathe, but the rest of his movements are forced to continue on. Another bow. Another dance.

_Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert, Roach._

~~

He hears a voice, a feeble _hello_ from the floor below. He’s only come from there, had just danced up the stairs, his expression so forlorn for the lover he doesn’t have, for he lover he doesn’t dance with.

The man’s footsteps are heavy, too heavy to be a hunter’s, he knows this from experience, experience he doesn’t remember anymore.

“ _Hello_?” The voice calls again. He can hear teeth chatter. The man is most likely drenched. He needs to build a fire, strip away his clothes or he’d— the curse pulls him back, his body folds in a bow to the partner that is not there and he begins dancing again.

He can’t remember what he’d been thinking about, only knows that he’s about to dance down the dusty velvet stairs again. Wood creaks as he takes another step. Creaks. It’s the only sound he’s ever heard. But that can’t be right because he hears a breath hitch and a clang as he swirles down the stairs, long hair flowing behind him. The hitch and the clang are new and old at the same time, sounds of a past life.

He sees a figure, of dripping hair and soaked doublet, bright blue eyes striking in the room that swallows all light. A man, so beautiful; he thinks he could remember, if only the man would break him from his curse and sing him a song. He spins, hand above his head, making his way towards the right side of the chamber, where a wood archway will lead him down another set of corridors. The man’s still clutching something in his hand, an instrument case, it looks like— he’s swept into a dip and a twirl as air wraps around his hips, holding him in the air, his hands on nothing’s shoulder’s before he’s set down again. When he looks back towards the main chamber, the man’s curious head peeps into the hallway.

A step forward, another back, a step to the left, and spin. The man follows him, eyes wide, not with fear, but with questions.

_Who are you?_

_Why are you here?_

_Why won’t you stop dancing?_

_What’s your name?_

He’s forgotten how long it’s been since anyone’s talked to him, doesn’t remember if all people have voices this beautiful, or if it’s a quality just this man holds. He tries to respond, but his voice had been taken away when he kept shouting for help, he remembers vividly how painful it had been, forced to dance rigidly through the pain. Now all his lips do is hold a serene smile as he dances along.

The touch is jarring, a hesitant hand on his shoulder as he comes up from a bow after dancing with nothing. He nearly flinches, overwhelmed by the man’s, the bard’s noise, touch, even his acknowledgement of his presence, and lack of fear.

Eventually, the bard quiets, eyes drooping, mumbling a goodnight as he follows him down the stairs, white hair whipping as he’s spun by the curse, his body balanced expertly on his toes.

He keeps dancing through the house, eyes trained on the man any chance he gets, but he only sleeps so very peacefully, sheltered from the storm, haunted by a cursed man.

~~

As he dances the morning light, he expects silence.

Instead, he hears, “I’ve heard of you. You’re Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken. Wasn’t sure if it was you at first, but your hair and your eyes, you can’t be anyone else but— ” 

He wishes the memories the moniker bring up had stayed forgotten. But at least he knows his name, now.

_Geralt, Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert, Roach, Jaskier._

He refuses to let himself forget, refuses to let time take the names away from him as he spends eternity in the halls.

“—didn’t know you were cursed.” 

He— _Geralt_ , wants to say something back, something that Vesemir would call him a smartass for. How he wishes Lambert was here. 

“I’m going to help you break it.”

~~ 

The bard’s hand is warm against his own, warm against his hip as his own splays out over Jaskier’s shoulder. It’s awkward, his movements are sure, lifetimes spent dancing in endless circles— but Jaskier’s are flawed, not in so much as a beginner's, but of a man out of practice.

Their movements soon become fluid, but as they spin and step, it is much too mechanical, formal. He doesn’t know what the curse wants, but he knows it’s not this. They dance through the day, and well into the night, the bard moves effortlessly, now, so much so that Geralt fears that the curse has him trapped as well, but Jaskier moves away, his limbs heavy, feet stumbling as their souls ache ache, leaving Geralt to dance with air again. 

He misses him already.

How can he miss him? He’s sat right there, rubbing his calloused feet _(he’s been on the road for long before he stumbled into the house it seems)_ , and chewing his nuts and dried fruit.

“Can you eat?” He asks him as Geralt dances past him. “I suppose you can’t talk, either, would’ve tried asking for help if you could.” Oh, if only he knew how he’d tried when the curse was still new and his memories were fresh.

The bard shrugs, and curls into himself onto the floor, shivering in the chill the storm’s left in its wake.

Geralt, oddly enough, aches to curl up beside him to keep him warm.

~~

The next day is much the same, Jaskier chatters on, about the outside world, how it’s changed, politics and fashion, the fall of some place called Cintra by the hands of a Nilfgaard. He says that there’s a beautiful mare outside that refuses to be ridden by anyone; that she’d nearly bit his hand off when Jaskier had tried to guide her away and back to town.

_Roach, her name’s Roach,_ but his lips are frozen shut, _she’s stubborn. Only lets me handle her._

He’s never liked talking, but his throat aches with the unsaid words.

~~

Jaskier is obviously exhausted, the week having wrung the last of his energy. _Go_ , he wants to say, _my curse cannot be broken, no matter how you try, go before you’re swallowed by its magick._

But the bard sighs, bows as Geral does, and slides his hand into his own, telling him about the progress he’s made with Roach, laughing when he tells Geralt about how she’d refrained from nipping him long enough to snatch the apple out of his palm, only to chew at his hair when she was done.

_That means she likes you. She’s a good judge of character._

~~ 

“Geralt,” the bard’s head leans against his chest as they float through the halls, his arms around the witcher’s _(he was— he is— a witcher, a monster hunter)_ waist. “I’m tired.”

_Don’t go._

“I don’t know if I’m doing this right, if anything’s even happening.”

_Please, please don’t leave._

The bard sighs again. “Can’t kiss you, the idea of doing it without your permission— what do I do, Geralt?”

_I don’t know. Don’t leave me._

“How about I sing to you? My latest composition— _The Song of the White Wolf._ ”

He sings, tone lilting and playful though the words are longing and melancholic, a reverie of heroics and heartbeat.

_It’s beautiful._

They sway together, intertwined, through hallways Geralt knows better than all else.

“And I can’t leave you, either,” Jaskier says when his song ends and they’ve lapsed into thoughtful silence, “you’re my muse, and I, I have an odd sense of loyalty for you I’m not sure—” he cuts himself off.

_What is it?_

The question goes unanswered but oddly enough, his arms grow tired. His nose twitches from the dust and his eyelids flutter and scrunch, as if ready to sneeze.

“Geralt?”

“Jaskier.” _Jaskier_. The name rolls off his tongue, and oh is it _bliss_ to be creating sound. They’re still dancing, absentminded feet stepping by each other in proper harmony.

And then they stop.

It’s _dizzying_ , not spinning, and he grabs Jaskier’s shoulder for balance. 

Only for the bard to wince. Witcher, indeed, it seems.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, voice rough from disuse, “ _Fuck_.”

They’re kissing, touching, such relief to be free, such relief to be in control. “I’m never dancing again,” he growls, the bard chuckling as he pulls away.

The sun rises, a horse neighs. Geralt feels welcomed back into the world, his fingers intertwined with Jaskier’s as they step out into the light, the house crumbling behind them along with its curse.

**Author's Note:**

> For Geralt Whump Week ( @geraltwhumpweek )! Kudos and comments let me know you’re liking my work; Thanks for reading and enjoy! Title’s from "The Bell" by Robert Hallow and The Holy Men.
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr @persony-pepper! I rb witcher stuff and take geraskier writing prompts <33


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